


If Not Downright Quixotic

by aldiara



Category: Band Sinister - K. J. Charles
Genre: Drabble Day 2019, Drabble Sequence, Established Relationship, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 22:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: Guy ponders the possibilities of becoming a four-sided triangle. It's predictably confusing. 12-drabble sequence.





	If Not Downright Quixotic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Drabble Day 2019](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/drabbleday/).

John Raven was watching him. Had been watching for weeks, if Guy let himself admit it, and he wasn’t sure what to make of that, not in the slightest. He was used to Corvin watching, because it was not, Guy thought, especially specific; Corvin flirted with everyone. At best, he looked at Guy a little more closely because Guy was Philip’s and Corvin was making an effort for Phil’s sake, which was touching in a way.

But now they were looking, both of the men who were his lover’s lover. Guy felt that things were about to get extremely confusing.

*

There was nothing predatory about the way John watched him, nothing threatening or even overt. Guy felt it in the quiet moments, like a presence in the wings of an engrossing play: they’d all of them have dinner, say, and Corvin might be laughing and Philip drawing Guy’s knuckles to his lips with a smile, and there it was: the gaze of dark eyes on him, unobtrusive but undeniable. John was an intense man and there was no covering the fact that when he looked at you, you knew yourself looked at.

Guy didn’t quite dare look back, not yet.

*

When John spoke up, it was not in the way that Guy had braced for.

“I want to paint you,” he said one night over sherry, abruptly; then added, with a sardonic nod at Philip, “if you’ve no objection, Phil, of course.”

Guy, who’d been feeling half amused and half crushed, got his hackles up at that; as if he was some tart who could not dispose of his own time without his lover’s say-so. He sat up and said sharply, “And why should his objection matter?” 

Phil had his hands raised already, palms out. “Leave me out of it.”

*

That was them, then: Guy chagrined without quite knowing why, Philip amused and half-wary, saying “Christ, love, tell him no if you want to; God knows the bugger thinks too highly of himself and his art”; and John Raven watching, inscrutable, not seeming overly invested in the outcome.

Corvin, naturally, was laughing at them all. “It’s only a painting. I don’t blame John, Guy; you’re a picture to look at, so why shouldn’t he? Don’t scowl at me,” and he pressed a kiss, harmless but alarming, on Guy’s cheek near his mouth.

These three would be the death of him.

*

Guy did, in the end, agree to a sitting so as not to make a nuisance of himself. It was disconcerting and then some: John asked him, casually, as if it was no small matter, to slouch on a divan in nothing but his shirt and breeches, the shirt undone to boot; draped like some listless, world-weary fop, gazing into the middle distance.

Guy didn’t think it suited him, and said so. John smiled, a rare, alarmingly warm smile, and said it did, and to simply relax. Guy did not like to admit that his smile was a dangerous thing.

*

Corvin and Philip were watching from the settee across the room. John Raven had not told them to scuttle, so Guy did not feel he could either, although there was something strange about having Philip – sweet Philip, who’d seen him naked, desperate and spending at his touch – seeing him like this, laid out for the pleasure of John’s eye and paintbrush.

Sometimes – not frequently – Guy felt nostalgic for a simpler time, when he had thought himself unlovely and unwanted. Then he looked at Phil and knew differently. He’d handle John and Corvin, however uncharted these territories. It was worth it.

*

“Do you miss them?” he asked Philip that night, when they were lying breathless side by side, sheets flung back to cool their heated bodies.

Philip raised a contemplative brow at him and did not, bless him, make Guy clarify. He supposed it was clear enough; he knew Phil hadn’t touched anyone else since they met. “I assume you mean in bed? Not like you think,” he said, frowning, running a hand down Guy’s ribs to make him shiver. “You know I love them, and it means the world to me that you don’t mind. Fucking is nice, but non-essential.”

*

That was nice to know but didn’t answer all the questions Guy hadn’t fully formed, like _I wonder what it feels like_ … and _Would I mind them touching you?_ and _Would I mind them touching ME?_

To be fair, those were not questions Phil could answer.

His mind, more devious than he, threw things into sharp clarity once he fell asleep. He dreamed of Corvin meeting his lips in a laughing kiss, John Raven’s hands in his hair, tugging harshly: and at his feet Phil, smiling as he took Guy into his mouth. 

He woke gasping, several questions answered.

*

It was not altogether shocking, Guy supposed. He was more than guiltily intrigued about what Philip used to do with John and Corvin: he’d frequently asked Philip in the throes of passion to tell him what it felt like, to be cherished (ravished, taken) by two men at once. It had been make-believe, of course, just a thing for the two of them to play with.

But now it was day, sunlight flooding John’s studio; Philip and Corvin talking, their heads companionably close, and this time, when John looked up from his canvas, Guy met his dark gaze straight on.

*

He probably imagined the strange silence. The world did not stop spinning because one bumbling fool had made up his mind to be brave. But when John set down his paintbrush, the clatter sounded very loud. He strode over leisurely and lightly took Guy’s face in his hands, tilting it to catch the sun.

Philip rose suddenly, breath catching audibly, Corvin’s hand in his. There was an odd sort of yearning in his face that tipped the scale for Guy; he did not want Phil to miss out, ever. He took a breath, and wrapped his own hand around John’s.

*

If Guy had ever imagined it, it would have been by night, in a bedroom, and possibly a little drunk. He wouldn’t have imagined it starting like this, clear-headed in a sun-drenched room, one summer-afternoon: his hand around John Raven’s, John’s fingers strong but gentle, the other hand still resting lightly on Guy’s jaw.

Movement across the room, sunlight glinting in Corvin’s russet hair. Then all of them were with him, and Phil, sweet Phil right beside John but looking only at Guy, his warm eyes asking a question and Guy letting his eyes say back _Yes, love, yes, yes._

*

It should have been awkward at the very least, impractical if not downright quixotic, to think that Guy could fit into something that was already fully grown without him. He did not doubt what Phil and he had, not at this point; but Phil and John and Corvin was something different altogether. They’d had each other almost all their lives, growing from friends to brothers and then lovers; apart at times but never fully parted.

Preposterous to think there might be a space for him in that. 

But here they all were, surrounding him warmly, and it no longer seemed impossible.


End file.
